


drillbits

by systemscheck



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dystopia, Fantasy Racism, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:20:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systemscheck/pseuds/systemscheck
Summary: Impactor barely waits for the paint to dry before showing Megatron his new spike.(Yeah sex is cool but have you ever tried peacefully advocating for frametype equality through amateur poetry and cutting political rhetoric?)





	drillbits

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a prequel to something I haven’t finished yet (perhaps until the heat death of the universe) so I’m just dropping it here first as proof of concept.

Impactor barely waits for the paint to dry before showing Megatron his new spike.

The newly-installed panel smoothly slides back like it has always been a part of him, revealing the component Impactor thought worthy of spending half a year's wages on. Megatron reminds himself to keep that in mind when Impactor asks his opinion. 

“It looks good,” Megatron says, after a beat. “Very authentic.”

In truth, Megatron doesn’t actually have much idea about how the real thing should look like, other from observing the pornographic holovids certain miners enjoy playing on stolen devices as a joke. What little he manages to glimpse over the bulky tank-tread shoulders of other curious mechs could hardly be enough to let him make an accurate judgement. Besides, it’s common knowledge that porn actors are typically modded far beyond normal parameters. 

Impactor’s spike is slightly ridged. Thick enough to be grasped in one hand, his thumb and forefinger are fully extended as he holds it up. Megatron wonders if he’d specified this exact girth to the workshop or if the technicians somehow engineered this happy coincidence on their own. Impactor is certainly bold enough to make a direct request. It’s just one of the many admirable qualities he possesses. Megatron only wishes that financial prudence is included on that list; the spec sheets people furtively pass around list prices with more zeros than he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

All the same, Impactor likes the praise. He gives the heavy thing between his legs another proud pat before retracting it. 

This takes a few tries. 

“You just need more practice,” Megatron offers when Impactor glances over at him, shame-faced. “Forged bots don’t crawl out of the ground knowing the first thing about ‘facing anyways.” 

“Yeah,” Impactor rumbles, low and thoughtful. “I’m gonna take this thing out for a test run the next time they grant surface leave.”

#

Impactor returns to the barracks just before curfew, smelling of bootleg engex and something stronger, a sharp ozone tang that Megatron doesn’t recognize. Impactor’s wide grin tells him all about it. He claps a scuffed hand on Megatron’s back, hard enough to jar his wrist and ruin the delicate circuitry in a glitchy datapad Megatron is trying to repair. 

“Could you—“ Megatron cuts himself off with a snarl. 

“Stuck down here, you don’t know what it means to have a good time,” Impactor laughs. Megtron tamps down the urge to fling the soldering iron at his face. 

“I suppose not,” he says evenly. 

Impactor takes this dismissal with unusual grace, whistling as he heads off for the washracks. He takes far too long scrubbing off the paint transfers, making sure that everybody knows what he’s been doing, or maybe who. 

This becomes a regular occurrence whenever they secure permission to venture onto Cybertron’s crust. Megatron takes up Impactor’s invitation to tag along only once, when he joins a whole group in their section who’d gotten the upgrades as well. He quickly realises that this isn’t his scene when their only conversation topic turns out to be interfacing: which brothel provides the cheapest pleasure drones, what to do about malware picked up from said drones, etcetera. And of course everybody aboard the transport whips out their spikes to compare when Impactor starts bragging about his new one. It is the most awkward fifteen kliks of Megatron’s life, and he only feels worse when the only valve mech around directs a small smile at him in mistaken solidarity. 

The expense of interface arrays means that cold-constructs usually opt to install only one component or the other. Only the incredibly wealthy or the forged may possess complete arrays, complete frames. Megatron is beginning to think this is the least important part of whatever they’re missing out on as second-class citizens. The implication that welding what amounts to a basic sensory hookup to his body will change—or improve—anything about its prefabricated nature is ridiculous and mildly insulting. 

Be that as it may, there’s no denying the significance of possessing this hardware to other people. That he doesn’t grasp any of the appeal almost feels like more of a defect than having come online lacking the ability to interface at all. 

He lets the boisterous hum of conversation wash over him, ignoring the unease stirring in his spark. When the personnel transporter stops and disgorges everyone onto a neon-soaked street, Megatron obediently follows the rowdy pack into a particularly worn-down establishment. There’s a bar, but nobody bothers getting anything. He watches the others sidle up to various buymechs who catch their optics, haggling over credit chips in low voices before slipping upstairs where apparently the main business is conducted. 

Impactor grabs his arm. “I didn’t bring you here for nothing,” he says. “Stop sulking, you can still watch.”

Megatron stares. He has never taken Impactor for an exhibitionist, no matter how brash. 

“There’s a show. With real performers,” Impactor elaborates with a smirk. “I mean, who would actually pay to see my ugly mug in action?”

“A show,” Megatron repeats, doubtful because the only kinds of artistic performance he knows about happen under the glittering domes of Iacon’s theatres. The kind of place no manual labourer dreams of stepping foot into unless they’re sent in for repair work. He elects to ignore the second, more self-deprecating statement. That Impactor’s face is worn by thousands doesn’t make it any less his, especially when he leans in close and whispers something crass that tugs a reluctant chuckle from Megatron. 

The lights dim. Impactor’s profile is cast into shadow. Megatron tries to pay attention to the mechs gyrating on the shallow dais and fails miserably. The pair is delicate in a way that’s meant to be attractive, but he doesn’t echo the crowd’s appreciative sighs as metal slides against metal, barely audible over the shard pop blasting from wall-mounted speakers. Ventilation fans whir. It doesn’t do much to dispel the accumulating heat, and the area is beginning to feel suffocatingly warm. 

Megatron taps Impactor’s arm. His friend only continues to stare straight ahead. 

“I’m stepping out for a bit,” he says, and doesn’t wait for a response before leaving. 

#

He’s genuinely happy for Impactor, he really is. But staying polite when Impactor blows him off yet again so that some rusty piece of shareware can frag his headlights out is proving increasingly difficult. Megatron doesn’t even know why they bother syncing their rest cycles anymore, if Impactor’s interface protocols take maximum priority the moment the elevator deposits them on the surface of the world. 

Drinking alone at Maccadam’s turns out to be every last bit as pathetic he’d feared it would be. He manages to wring a good seat, right next to the window where his armour can be pleasantly warmed by real sunlight. But the spot where Impactor usually sprawls opposite him is dead, empty space. He can’t read poetry to an audience of none. Impactor may be a vulgar and uncultured working-class bot, but he is also the only person on the planet whom Megatron trusts sufficiently to criticize his first drafts. Impactor tells Megatron when he sounds like he’s trying too hard to mimic the datapads he steals from the public libraries barred to the manual caste, laughs at the stupid puns he nearly wanted to remove, and is always ready to help conceal those datapads from the sharp optics of the overseers. 

He misses Impactor’s company. He misses Impactor. 

He’s too lonely to tell the difference. 

#

They’re loading enormous chunks of bauxite onto a conveyor belt which feeds into the yawning maw of the main smelter. It’s hot, dangerous work, and none of them have ever known anything else. As soon as they transfer the ore a fresh load tips into the collection receptacle, raising choking plumes of dust that instantly clog filters. 

Just this once, Megatron is glad to be assigned this mindless, repetitive task. He needs the distraction from Impactor’s constant yammering. 

Megatron deliberately selects the larger chunks. They make satisfyingly loud noises when he dumps them onto the belt, monetarily drowning out yet another improbable story about a wild night of sexual escapades. Even if Megatron had been trying to listen, he’d probably have lost track past the third hooker.

Impactor doesn’t seem to care. If his hands weren’t currently busy sorting he’d definitely be gesturing excitedly. 

Megatron is so annoyed, it takes him a few seconds to notice when he starts making another kind of noise altogether. And a bit longer to process the sight before him: Impactor crumpled onto the floor, one arm pinned between the conveyor belt and an absolutely massive rock. Under harsh fluorescent lights the floor shines pink and slick. Every moment counts when someone's this close to bleeding out. Megatron struggles to keep his balance on the slippery ground as he hurries over. 

The bauxite doesn’t budge even after Megatron leans his full weight upon it. Impactor is steadily being dragged towards the hellishly hot smelter, legs scraping across the cement floor with horrible metallic shrieks. 

“I’m sorry,” Megatron says, raising his hand as it transforms into a pickaxe. Impactor stares up at him, optics glazed with pain and mouth open. All this while he’d been emitting the most awful sound, a high-pitched binary that systems pushed past higher-order processing fall back on. Still, he understands enough to turn his head away just before Megatron swings his arm down. 

#

Megatron manages to buy out the rest of Impactor’s shifts, and his own, for the next three stellar cycles. 

“Where did you find the shanix,” Impactor asks when Megatron tells him that was how long he had to recover. He’d been propped up on the lower bunk, pretending to sleep. 

“Haven’t been going up that often.” Megatron gives him a modest, one-shouldered shrug. 

Impactor is intelligent enough to read between the lines. He ducks his head in a rare show of embarrassment. 

“It’s the least I can do for you,” Megatron explains, not liking the sudden awkwardness. His gaze flickers towards the stump of Impactor’s right arm, a gory mess of frayed wires and inexpertly spliced tubing. 

The belt doesn’t have a killswitch. There was no way Megatron could have saved both Impactor and the limb. 

“It’s okay,” Impactor says, smiling. It’s an even more unusual look on him, a smile that isn’t smug or defiant or bitter. A smile that makes Megatron’s spark spin a little faster in his chest. 

Megatron thinks it makes up for almost seeing him die. 

“I can get a better replacement anyways. Like a proton missile launcher, or, uh, a harpoon!”

Impactor’s optics shine brightly enough that they appear white rather than his usual yellow. 

“Aren’t you saving up for a better spike,” Megatron asks, teasing. 

“Naw,” Impactor says, looking unsure for a moment before he hastily continues. “I’ve been thinking—it’s not very fair when you don’t have one, and can’t come with us to the warehouses. So. Do you have a model in mind—as a thank-you present?”

Now it’s Megatron turn to smile. He huffs a laugh and leans in, feeling the gentle thrum of Impactor’s systems where their plating presses together, gloriously alive. 

“Keep the shanix,” Megatron tells him quietly, fondly. “Get the most massive harpoon gun ever to definitely demonstrate that you’re not compensating for anything.”


End file.
